


Feelings of Friendship

by without_a_license



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5028568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/without_a_license/pseuds/without_a_license
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington is desirous of a more intimate friendship with his young secretary. Hamilton rebuffs him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feelings of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this quote (Chernow, pg. 152, letter from A. Ham to Philip Schuyler): "For three years past, I have felt no friendship for [Washington] and have professed none. The truth is our dispositions are the opposites of each other and the pride of my temper would not suffer me to profess what I did not feel. Indeed when advances of this kind [have been made] to me on his part, they were rec[eived in a manner] that showed at least I had no inclination [to court them, and that] I wished to stand rather upon a footing of m[ilitary confidence than] of private attachment." 
> 
> Also inspired by this [tumblr post.](http://without-a-license.tumblr.com/post/131393269699/guys-theres-so-much-gay-stuff-in-hamilton-the)
> 
> That's my tumblr, by the way. I am big enough to admit that I am often inspired by myself.

The other aides-de-camp have long since retired, causing Hamilton to move his work into Washington’s bedroom so as not to disturb them with his feverish writing. He stills his pen for a moment, letting the sentences write themselves in his mind, then reordering them in a manner that is more urgent and less polite, before he puts them to paper. He rereads the letter and signs the General’s name with a flourish. If Washington has any addenda after he looks it over, he can add them in his own hand. 

Sensing that Hamilton has reached a stopping point, Washington looks up from where he is rubbing his jaw and examining maps. 

“Have you finished for the night, Hamilton?” 

Hamilton turns to face the General, but Washington is looking at his own stockinged feet. 

“For the moment, sir, although I have some work I could do on a pet project of mine. I’m keeping correspondence with a certain congressmen back in Albany. We have been discussing ways in which to restore confidence in the Continental dollar…”

Washington raises a hand to stop him. 

“That can wait, Hamilton. Alexander. Come to bed.” 

The General seems to be indicating his own bed. Hamilton is confused. His mind is racing, but he isn’t sure enough to speak it…

“Sir?”

Washington rubs at his mouth, his stern face coloring slightly.

“You need not wake the other aides at this hour by returning next door. Share my bed, and we can resume our work in the morning.” 

Oh. _Oh._ Alexander swallows, straightens his desk, straightens his thoughts.

“Thank you, sir, but I think I ought to return to the aides’ room. It’s rather drafty in there, and John must be freezing without me…”

Shit. He ought not to have mentioned John. He waits for Washington’s reply. The General seems emboldened, as though he believes that Hamilton has confirmed his interest, and they need merely to perform the coy dance that will absolve them of the crime of overeagerness. 

“No need to worry, Alexander. Laurens is a big lad. I am sure he keeps warm enough on his own.”

In the silence between words, both Hamilton and Washington can clearly hear Laurens (or possibly one of the others, but Hamilton knows it to be Laurens) snoring through the walls. Hamilton finds that he is shaking, slightly. He tenses his body to hide it. Washington steps forward, rests his hand lightly against the angle of Hamilton’s neck.

“You’re already chilled. Come to bed with me, Alexander. I will keep you warm. All these hours spent in each other’s company, discussing military matters… “

The General chuckles, and Hamilton realizes that this is the austere man’s attempt at warmth and geniality. He is unmoved by it, and so he remains silent.

“You are my most trusted aide, and yet I find myself desirous of a more intimate friendship. I wish to know more about you.” 

Washington trails his hand down Alexander’s arm, taking his hand and making as though to lead him toward the bed. Alexander is thinking, always thinking, twice as fast as anyone else in the room. He thinks of the boys on St. Croix, pretty boys with pink lips and dark eyes. Thinks of them on their knees for fat businessmen, laughing over the coins and beer they received for their sluttishness. 

He will not be a whore to any man. He will not let it be said that Alexander Hamilton rose to the top by lying on his back. He pulls back his hand and makes for the door. 

“Thank you for the offer, sir, but I am afraid I must decline. John has been lately ill and I could not leave him to sleep alone.” 

He glances over his shoulder as he slips out the door and sees Washington standing, hand still outstretched. He looks confused, and saddened. Perhaps the offer was truly made in friendship. Hamilton closes the door. 

* * * 

He strips off most of his clothes and dives into bed with John, his heart still pounding with terror at his own brazenness. Did he really just deny George Washington’s overtures of friendship?

He shoves at John, pushing him up and over until Alexander can slip beneath him, rubbing his face against his friend’s thick thatch of chest hair and letting the warm weight of his body help drain the intensity of his emotions. 

John coughs and wakes up fuzzy-headed.

“Y’okay, Ham? Why’re you…mmm.”

“The General invited me into his bed,” Alexander whispers. He can hear his own heart thudding in his ears. He continues to shift anxiously against John, trying to force him to wake up and join Alexander in his anxiety and high temper.

John drops his arm over Hamilton’s shoulder and squeezes him tight, rolling his neck back with a sigh. 

“Since when did I become the General?” he mumbles, laughing to himself. 

“I told him no,” Hamilton continues in his fierce whisper. “I came here instead. John, he thought all he’d have to do was imply, and I’d spread my legs like some weak-willed servant girl. Is that what they all think of me? Washington’s whore? No wonder I haven’t been given command. I’ve been a fool!” 

Alexander is gritting his teeth in fury, his mind spinning out paranoid fantasies, imagining how all his work will be undone, undone by his low birth and Washington’s refusal to give him a battalion. Worthless, useless, should have died with mother…

John shuffles down the bed until they are face to face. He cups Hamilton’s face in his warm, calloused hands, rubbing his thumbs over Alexander’s cheekbones.

“Stop thinking so hard, my dear. Washington wants you because you are brilliant and handsome. He keeps you on staff because you write constantly, perfectly, like it is the only thing that keeps your little body alive. You do more good for this revolution than any 50 other men in the army combined, battalion or no.” 

Alexander sighs and settles down slightly, pulling John on top of him. He can never find the words to acknowledge John’s praises, but he loves to hear them. They fit themselves together quietly, as they have learnt to do these many cold nights, pushing off their smallclothes and hitching up their nightshirts. 

Alex wraps his legs around John’s back and digs into his shoulders with tooth and claw. He would never dare to treat a woman this way, but John can bear the full brunt of Alexander’s passion, and he wears the scars of Alexander’s mouth proudly. 

John reaches between them to align their cocks before beginning to slowly rock them together into the bed. Alexander’s penchant for biting also has the helpful side effect of containing his moans as he scrabbles for purchase, writhing beneath his lover. John is slow and silent in contrast, cupping Alex’s shoulder blades in his large palms and laying soft kisses on any bit of skin that rises to meet his mouth. 

They move together, one body and one breath. Around them the air is chilly, the late locusts buzz, the other aides snore, something cracks loudly in the camp outside. But in the space between them there is only that old sweet song of skin and heat. 

John finishes first, holding himself perfectly still and bearing down on Alex as he fights to stay in the sensation for as long as he can. Then he releases, becomes dead weight, with Alexander writhing up against him, scrabbling for friction, until he, too, goes still. 

They don’t bother cleaning up. Baths are a luxury rarely afforded soldiers in times of war, and they’re wet with one of the least offensive of the body’s various effluvia. 

Alexander catches his breath and sets to shoving John around until he is lying on his side, curled with his front to Alex’s back. Alexander pulls John’s arm over himself and holds it firmly. John can imagine the serious set of his dear little face, though he can’t see it. 

“My dear,” he murmurs in Alexander’s ear, “You fuck like an animal fighting for its life.” 

Alex plucks out one of his arm hairs in retaliation. 

“ _You_ fuck like a Southern farm boy with the neighbor’s goat!” 

John chuckles and holds him tighter. All he wants (all he ever wants) is to make Alex lose the weight of the world for a moment, and be free. 

The room is silent but for slow, steady breathing for long minutes. Just before John drops off to sleep, he hears Alexander whisper, “I didn’t mean it, John. I often think that you are proof that there is a God, and that He wishes me to know a piece of His Grace before I die.” 

John kisses his neck, and they sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback, criticism, yelling about historical figures, etc. welcome.


End file.
